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Ah, Easter. It’s the time of renewal, rebirth, pastel dresses, daffodils and tulips, baskets filled lots of candy and, if you’re lucky, no annoying Easter basket grass. This morning, the dwarf magnolia in our front yard is dressed up in her own version of an Easter bonnet and coat — beautiful white and ruby blooms that last about two weeks before she covers herself in a robe of green leaves. After such a long, snowy winter, seeing this first sign of Spring on Easter morning is about as exciting as coloring Easter eggs.

Almost.

Coloring the eggs is, in my opinion, more fun than finding them. But maybe that’s because I am the second youngest in my family and my older brother, Dave, always beat me and my sisters and younger brother to the traditional hiding spots. With all of these thoughts of Easter eggs and marshmallow peeps dancing in my head, I decided to interview my brothers, sisters, and mom about their memories of Easters past.

So, here are the players: Chris, oldest and loudest sister, also talks with her hands more than I do, and is the only one with a brain for science among us (you’d think the science brain would’ve helped her be a better egg finder but it didn’t; Dave, oldest brother who could go to Bora Bora and would end up running into someone he knows, also highly competitive and is a champion at teasing his sisters and finding eggs; Mary, middle sister of our clan, interior designing diva and artiste, and the one everyone turns to when they need something, including help coloring Easter eggs; Amy, ‘nuf said; and bringing up the rear, Kevin, youngest brother, lives in Portland, would rather be outdoors than inside, the only southpaw in our family, and also an artiste. Oh, and Mom, matriarch, also the one who organizes our chaos.

Amy: Let’s start with the important stuff. What was your all-time favorite Easter outfit?  

Dave:  Not a fair question, I can’t remember outfits that I wore at Easter. Next question, please.

Mary: This was the good part of being a Creelman girl. Grandma Creelman always bought our Easter outfits, including coats, hats, and a purse. I probably remember more of the cute purses and shoes. I remember one picture I had on a little pink coat with a white hat and those shiny white patent leather
shoes. Very cute.

Chris: Let me add to that. Grandma Creelman would send a package from Florida and there would be matching outfits for Mary and I, but they’d be different colors. 

Amy and Kevin: Um, hello spoiled.

Chris: Whatever. I remember pantsuits trimmed with tuxedo ruffles. Mine was neon green and Mary’s neon orange.  Very 1970′s and oh so cool.  When we were little we had dresses with matching coats and hats and we wore veils (round lace dollies) on our heads and gloves to church.

Amy: Anything to add to that, Kevin?

Kevin: No dude. I’m just glad Grandma didn’t buy me anything with ruffles.

Amy: Mom, how about you?

Mom: The one Easter outfit that stands out is the one that I wore as a teenager, maybe around 14 or 15.  It was a white linen dress, sleeveless with a full skirt with a crinoline underneath as was the fashion of the 1950′s.  It had a black bolero jacket since, in those days, you couldn’t go sleeveless to Mass.  The bodice had an insert that laced up similar to the kind the German women wear.  I also had the neatest pair of black high heals trimmed in white complete with a small bow on the front. I loved them. 

Amy: See everyone? It’s not like I can control this love of shoes thing. It’s in my genes!

Mom: Anyhow, you also had to wear a hat to church.  Mom talked me into a red one that had flowers on the side. UGH! Red purse too.  I don’t know why I wore black, white and red since this is out of my color family.  (Inserted by Amy: Mom is an “autumn”.) And isn’t it strange that red and white were the colors of the girls in our wedding. I remember being at Mass with both sets of grandparents while your Dad served Mass.  I think I remember the outfit because it made me feel glamorous (mostly the high heels) . I don’t remember exactly where the outfit came from but I think it might have been Lerner’s in downtown Cincinnati, a very popular place for teenagers to shop in the 50′s.  I can tell you about the worst one I ever had.  Fifth grade.  A dress with a white bodice, ruffle down the front and kelly green skirt, wide green belt with gold buckle matching kelly green sandals worn with white anklets and a plaid swing coat, white, red and green.  I wish I had a photo, you wouldn’t believe it.

Amy: Speaking of the worst, remember the year I left my Easter outfit at home? We went to Florida to visit Aunt Virg and Uncle Charlie and, of course, Grandma and Grandpa Creelman. Somehow, and I don’t know how, I left my Easter outfit behind and we had to go shopping to get me something new. We bought lavender Chinos and a beige shirt that maybe had a ruffle on it. What is it with Easter and ruffles?

Okay, on to another topic, what is your favorite Easter candy? For me, it’s a three-way tie between black jelly beans, Reese’s peanut butter eggs, and Rain-Blo bubblegum shaped like little spotted eggs.

Kevin: Definitely Reese’s peanut butter eggs. But not Cadbury eggs. I hate those cream things.

Chris: The best Easter basket I ever got was only filled with yellow marshmallow peeps, stale of course, and black jelly beans!  

Mom: Oh yes, black jelly beans are my favorite, too.

Mary: Remember that one year you called them “jack belly beans?” Now that’s what we call them.

Mom: Well I guess the love of jack belly beans runs in the family because all of us like them. And stale peeps. And I like chocolate eggs filled with marshmallow.

Dave: Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hang on a sec. I never said I liked black jelly beans. I’m a Smarties and Rain-Blo bubblegum man. You’re all weird with your love of black jelly beans.

Kevin: Totally weird. This family is whack.

Amy: Oh no, you know what’s whack? Whack is the both of you trying to make the ugliest Easter eggs ever.

Dave: That’s not whack, it’s cool. You dip the egg in every color and it comes out brown.

Amy, Mary, Chris (in unison): It’s PUCE, not brown!

Dave: Ug. Sisters. What the hell is puce?

Mom: Children, back to the subject. Coloring eggs was always a challenge with all of you because you always had to be creative and the end result was some pretty weird colors.  Dad and I always made a list of where we hid the eggs because we didn’t want one to slip by unnoticed and become a smelly problem after Easter. 

Mary: For the record, mom, dad and I were the only ones who ever ate the pretty and ugly eggs.

Mom: Dad and I also had fun hiding the baskets in out of the way places, but David usually found his and his sister’s too which didn’t go over too well.

Amy, Mary, Chris (in unison): No, it did not.

Dave: I can’t help it I’m smarter than all of you. I was pretty creative at coloring the eggs because finding the eggs and baskets was way too easy for me.  Let me see…how did it go? Oh yeah, I would find my basket and then usually have to give all of you hints on where your baskets were. This skill that I had as a child has made my hiding baskets frustrating for my own kids. Brian and Erika could never find their baskets and usually Andrew had to help them.

Amy, Mary, Chris (in unison): Ugh. Brothers.

Kevin: Yeah, well none of you were clever enough to set bunny traps in the dining room like I did. I set up a cardboard box with a carrot underneath it, thinking I could trap the Easter Bunny. I’m brilliant.

Amy: Nice, Kev. I’d forgotten about that. You win all of the Easter brilliant points! Now, on to really important business. Marshmallow peeps. Stale or fresh? Bunny or chick?

Chris (loud, hands waving): Ooooooh, ooooh, ooooh! Me first! Stale, of course! Always stale. Most definitely stale. And always yellow! No pink!

Kevin:  Not just stale, they should be rock hard, like break your teeth rock hard. And you have to bite the head off first, bunny or chick. Whatever, just eat the head first.

Mary: Absolutely stale stale stale – about 3 weeks stale.  You have to but them early and cut a slit in the package-put them on top of the fridge so you kind of forget them -they need to be chewy and yellow and only the chicks, NO RABBITS.

Mom: Definitely stale. Me too.

Amy: Me three. Dave?

Dave: Never eat ‘em. Not then, not now. But I think we can all agree on Dad’s favorite Easter candy, right?

All (in unison): Papas Opera Cream Eggs!!!

Mary: Only when I got older and tried Dad’s favorite Papas Opera Cream Eggs did that one take the place of the Reese’s peanut butter eggs.  Lovely creamy egg – ahhhhh.  Mom always bought them for dad as soon as she saw them in the store; he would keep them cold in the fridge down in the basement remember?

Amy: Thank god Dad liked them because I hated them. Yuk. So, to wrap this up, what else do you remember about Easter? Let’s let mom go first.

Mom: Well, I remember as a child my Aunt Dorothy and Uncle John giving us a half-pound butter crème egg from some specialty candy store in Cincinnati, name escapes me, and I always looked forward to getting one of those.  The center was bright yellow surrounded by opera crème, yummy. But what about the Easter in April when we went to Batavia, New York to visit the Uncle Charlie. Amy, you were probably too little to remember and Kevin wasn’t born yet. Grandma and Grandpa Riedmiller, Uncle Denny, Uncle Len and Diane and their family.  We were all looking forward to the Easter Egg Hunt and it snowed and was very cold.
The men took all the kids while the women stayed behind to prepare dinner.  We also went to Niagara Falls and part of the Falls were frozen solid.  I thought they looked beautiful and very surreal.

Uncle Denny would like to add his favorite memory as well.  He remembers coming out on the porch with Mom, your Grandma Riedmiller, in his Robert Hall jacket and tie. Mom was all dressed up.  As he headed for the car, Mom turned around and went back into the house.  Came out five minutes later with a completely new outfit, from hat to gloves.  We never knew what motivated the change.  Dad, of course, complained and smiled at the same time.  We think it was one of the things he loved most about her.

Amy: Um, I’ve done that before. Changing outfits at crucial moments.

Chris and Mary (in unison): Of course you have, Little Cass!

Kevin: I remember Sunrise Service in Florida, with Grandma Creelman. That was super cool. 

Mom: Oh yes, I remember that. Grandma Creelman wanted to go to the Sunrise Service on the beach.  We all got up at the crack of dawn. We dragged lawn chairs to Mass, with the gulf in the background.  It was very pretty but the damn no-seeims, those pesky little critters, nearly ate us alive.  I also remember Dad hiding Easter eggs in the backyard on Applevalley for Kevin, and taking Kevin to Northgate to have his picture taken sitting on the Easter bunny’s lap.

Amy, Mary (in unision, in babytalk): Aw, wittle Kevin on da Easter bunny’s lap. Aw.

Kevin: Shut. Up.

Chris: I don’t have any specific Easter memories, other than the New York trip, but I do remember going to the Polly Flinders Outlet with Grandma Creelman and seeing a Disney movie (Sleeping Beauty), I think. 

Mary: Oh yes, I sort of remember the Polly Flinders trips. But what I remember more is all of that flocking on those dresses. Flocking itches!

Amy: Major itchy.

Mary:  I also like watching Easter Parade every year. How can you not love a good old movie with Fred and Judy?

(Amy, Chris, Mom humming Easter Parade tune).

Amy: Any parting words for this Easter morning?

Dave: Let me know if you still need help finding your Easter baskets.

Kevin (chewing): Um, sorry. I just took off a Peep’s head. Happy Easter.

Mary: At least my eggs were always pretty and artistic.

Chris: I wonder if I have anything with ruffles to wear to Mass today.

Mom (chewing): Who says black jelly beans aren’t for breakfast.

Amy: Happy Easter everyone! Enjoy the sunny day with family and friends!

Somewhere south of your wildest dreams
You put your faith right to the test
-The Long Fight, lyrics by Dave Purcell

I’m in! I’ve been accepted to the Northeast Ohio Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Program – quite possibly the longest name for a program so I’ll be using the acronymn, NEOMFA, from here on out. Several years ago, Dave wrote a song called “The Long Fight” and this, my friends, has been one very long fight and a long time coming. For someone like me, who doesn’t think more than a day or two in advance and whose idea of planning is grounded more in intuition and emotion than logic and strategy, taking the long fight doesn’t come naturally. But this lesson in patience and planning is finally paying off.

(Official site of the Purcell Deal)

Getting to March 6, 2010 – the day I was accepted to the program – has been nearly 20 years in the making. When I graduated from Ohio U, I thought about staying in school to get my masters, but I ventured into the work world instead. Shortly thereafter, Dave and I got married. Now there were two artists with competing dreams. Dave wanted to pursue music, I wanted to pursue writing, and Dave also wanted out of computer programming. A camping trip to Bear Mountain, NY in our turquoise Volkswagon microbus was the site of the Purcell Deal: Dave would get his masters in Sociology first; then it would be my turn to write full-time, go back to school, do what I wanted.

We sealed the deal over a campfire while eating peanut butter sandwiches, a camping staple and a Purcell vacation staple in the coming years.

Dave completed his masters at the University of Cincinnati and the Deal continued. We moved to Chicago so Dave could pursue his Ph.D. at Loyola. At that point, I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to get a masters in creative writing or maybe a teaching certificate so I could teach high school English. Dave had taken a mammoth paycut to return to school and we were living on my salary. Many people couldn’t understand our decision; some folks still wanted to know when we’d “settle down, have kids, and buy a house” instead of chasing silly musical and writing dreams. But we ignored those comments.

While many of our friends were already in houses and vacationing at all-inclusive resorts, we were living in cramped apartments with milk crates and hand-me-down furniture, and taking trips to nearby state parks with our fancy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It was our Deal, our path, and we did what was needed to stay on it.

We made ends meet … barely. Oftentimes the ends were frayed or tied together with loose change scrounged out of pockets and corners of our apartment.  How poor were we? We were so poor that our landlord took pity on us and gave us free tickets to the Cubs game. While we were at the game, we had to make a big decision: use the remaining cash from my paycheck for one more beer or use it for the fare home on the El. It was the last of our money until the next payday. We opted for the El, a tough decision given our love for beer. Good times.

For a variety of reasons, Dave left Loyola and ventured back into the corporate world for a few years. But he missed academia almost immediately and realized his true calling was there versus the corporate grind. When we moved back to Newport, KY and stockpiled some savings, Dave returned to the University of Cincinnati to finish out his Ph.D. The Purcell Deal was still in play - once Dave was finished, it was my turn. We moved into a smaller, more affordable house — Dave’s childhood home, in fact — to make things work. Lots of people didn’t understand why we were moving out of a lovely historical home into a fixer-upper but it was all part of the Deal. If we downsized and made some sacrifices, it would pay off later, especially for me. Tom Petty’s statement that the waiting is the hardest part doesn’t even begin to cover it.

The payoff wasn’t always easy to remember when I was working 60-hour weeks, the basement was flooding when it rained, and Dave was so immersed in school that I dubbed the term Grad School Face – a cross between a scowl, confusion, and exhaustion. Dave also had to make the tough decision to set aside a piece of his core: music. After being in bands for sixteen years straight with no breaks, he left the three to four bands he was playing in and booked infrequent gigs for his main band, Pike 27, when his schedule allowed. As his dissertation date neared, he played less and less and said “no” to more and more social events with friends. In the meantime, my job absorbed most of my time, leaving very little energy left for fiction writing. When I’d get frustrated about our Deal, Dave would remind me of our sense of purpose - that soon it would be my turn, that all of this madness was part of the method to get us to the next step. True. And true.

Dave landed a job at Kent State University, which meant moving to Akron and leaving good friends and family behind. People said we were “lucky.” People told us that we were “golden” and things just always seemed to work out for us. Peeshaw. What’s that old saying about luck being when preparation meets opportunity? If it hadn’t been for all of the preparation — downsizing, moving into a smaller home, working my ass off, setting music aside, setting fiction writing aside, coming up with a Deal – we’re pretty sure we wouldn’t be where we are today. We planned, we made concessions, and we even doubted ourselves. Our faith in the Deal wavered plenty of times, especially over those peanut butter sandwich vacations. There was the distinct possibility it could backfire at any time.

Thankfully, I had built a solid reputation at work and was asked to keep my job on a part-time basis, the first step toward fulfilling the next part of the Deal. Year one passed quickly in Akron and with so much change, I had a hard time focusing the other part of my time on fiction. In fact, I could barely settle into my new part-time status. I continued to work my full-time hours, mainly because I’d been a full-time worker for 18 years and I struggled with losing that identity.  Work had become my world, it was who I was at some level. When people asked me what I did for a living, I didn’t say I was a writer. I went into a long description about my job and what I did there.

Finally, as we entered year two in Akron, I decided the time was right and I was ready to head into my portion of the Deal. I considered getting a master’s in journalism but the job market for news reporters is at an all-time low. I also considered getting my teaching certificate so I could teach high school English. My high school English teachers were a huge influence on me and I thought it’d be great to pay it forward, so to speak. But after talking with a few high school teachers, I knew I’d have to give up writing fiction altogether if I wanted to be a great teacher. I wasn’t willing to do that. Dave pushed me to make a decision and come up with a better plan than, “I’ll think about it later” and “things will work out the way they’re supposed to.” I hemmed. I hawed. I made excuses for why I wasn’t making my move.

Truth be told, now that it was time to take advantage of my part of the Deal, I was afraid. In Dave’s song, The Long Fight, there’s a line: we’re fragile in the face of fear. Um…yeah. What if I applied to an MFA program and they rejected me? What if my writing wasn’t good enough to get in? And what if I couldn’t cut it in class? All of these years of dreaming about writing full-time would come to a screeching halt. Sure, I had some short stories published and people enjoyed my work; I had even signed on with an agent!

But fear is a powerful demotivator and, for years, all of my excuses for why I wasn’t writing more had been a convenient crutch. I had a ready-made list of excuses: My job demanded all my energy. I was supporting Dave through school. The dogs needed me. There was that marathon to train for and then that surgery to recover from. A friend needed my help. Someone else wanted me to volunteer a few hours. Maybe it was time to take up pilates. We were moving to a new place. The refrigerator needed cleaning and have you seen the laundry pile? It’s threatening to revolt. Oh, and there was a great sale at Macy’s.

Most of all, if I went back to the MFA program, it meant putting my needs first. That’s not easy for me and I’m not saying that because I think I’m the most selfless and generous person on the planet. I’m saying it because it’s true; usually I put other people’s requests and needs in front of my own. And boy howdy, is that an easy crutch to lean on. Why can’t I focus on writing? Because I’ve got to take care of all of these other things first. And if I’m taking care of all of those other things, then I can blame all of those other things for getting in the way of writing. Believe me, I’m not the only writer (or woman) on this Ship of Fear.

Then, a little bit of serendipty entered the scene. My book-loving friend, Erik, shipped me Barb Johnson’s incredible short story collection, “More of This World or Maybe Another.” He said it was a must-read, so much so that he sent me a copy as a gift.  And it was truly a gift, in the sense that it was the catalyst I needed. The collection made Number Two on my Top 10 List for 2009. The writing was incredible but more so was Johnson’s journey to writing. She had spent 20 years as a carpenter before going back to school in New Orleans. Hmmmm….I’d spent twenty years doing my own sort of carpentry for various companies — crafting memos, newsletters, speeches, advertising copy, headlines blah blah blah. I’d hammered out a few creative briefs and headlines myself.  Right after reading her collection, she wrote a short, inspiring piece for Glimmertrain, the behemoth literary magazine that every writer dreams of seeing their name in. Johnson talked about getting a late start into writing. She had this to say:

“…it illustrates a belief I have about timing, about how we get to things when we’re ready for them. And also how the great preoccupations of our lives continue to reassert themselves for consideration. This is how, after spending most of my adult life working as a carpenter, I came to enter an MFA program. Unlike learning to whistle through my teeth, my application to creative writing programs was fraught with a sense of having waited too long. But writing has always been on my short list, so when it reasserted itself, I was consumed with wanting to know what would happen if I had a few years to really focus on it. What would happen if I gave it my full attention and best effort? If I had the time to practice? It took me ten years to really master carpentry, and it seemed that I’d be close to death if writing took as long.

And this is the thing: the almost universal fear that an endeavor will take too long, that we will be way past our primes, our social usefulness, before we get to whatever it is we long for. And lurking underneath is the larger fear of not being good enough. To offset the fear, we manufacture obstacles and place them between ourselves and what we want. And, of course, there are all the real obstacles: no time, no money, other obligations. Unlike my carefree whistling program, my goal of being admitted to an MFA program seemed pretty unrealistic. I don’t want to draw undue attention here to my dubious undergraduate work, so suffice it to say that I didn’t look like much on paper. I couldn’t imagine that schools would be interested in having an old broad come knocking at their doors with nothing to show for herself … and I came to realize that the feeling isn’t about age so much as it is about finally paying attention to what it is you really want in life. And that realization requires us to set aside our assumptions about how life works and what we should be doing, and to consider what our strongest preoccupations are. If we’re lucky, we do this sort of reassessment over and over as time goes on. We fine tune. We just go ahead and reach for the seemingly unreachable. And we get there when we get there.”

WHAM!! Was this woman speaking directly to me? Given the timing — I read it the morning after Dave and I had a rather heated debate about me dragging my feet on my end of the deal — I believe it was definitely a sign. I started the application process shortly thereafter. The deadline for apps was February 1 and I tried to put the whole thing out of my mind. Impossible. By March 1, I was beyond antsy. See my aforementioned inability to take the long view.

I got the call from NEOMFA on March 6 – a voicemail from the graduate coordinator congratulating me on being accepted to the program. I did a dance around the house. It was more like a march with arms raised. I think I might have been singing some bombastic version of Pomp and Circumstance. The dogs barked in celebration.

Now, I just have to make good on my part of the Deal.

(That’s my Artsy-Fartsy sister Mary on the left, my dad in his Mohawks Jrs. alumni jersey, me in the white hat at the bottom of the photo, and mom with the popcorn.)

March 1: It’s been four years since my dad passed away and I still miss him. We all miss him. Watching the Olympics this year, especially with my dad being a hockey fan and former player of the game, and the U.S. playing Canada for the gold, I couldn’t help but think about the last afternoon I spent with dad before he died. 

It was Saturday, February 25, and mom had to run some errands. It was my turn to stick close to dad — all of us were taking turns sitting with him and my work schedule didn’t make it easy to get there on the weekdays. When I got there that afternoon, dad was sleeping. Mom instructed me to get him to drink a protein shake when he woke up and to check on him frequently. By this time, he was barely eating. Mom tried to hide her worry but her poker face needed some work. I peeked into the bedroom about 15 minutes later and he was still sleeping. The tv was on and the hockey semi-finals had just started. Surely the sound of bodies hitting the boards or the announcer yelling “SCORE!!!!!” would rouse dad once the game got going.

I waited in the living room for a bit, pretending to read but I couldn’t focus. A small part of me realized that dad was not going to be with us much longer but a much bigger part of me refused to admit it. This was my dad. That cancer was no match for someone as stubborn as him. At least that’s what I told myself — as they say, denial aint just a river in Egypt. I got one the shakes out of the fridge and poured it into a cup. When I took the shake in, dad was semi-watching the hockey semi-finals. The Winter Olympics were always a time when dad could get his hockey fix because my parents didn’t have cable and hockey games aren’t standard television fare in Cincinnati. I asked if he wanted something to drink and he said, “No. Just put it on the table.” I set it on the nightstand and then stood there. “Mom told me to make you drink a little bit.” He looked at me, semi-smiled, and then stuck out his tongue. “Ppphhhhttt,” he said. This was dad’s traditional, joking gesture when he knew mom’s advice was right but didn’t want to admit it. Yeah, there was a little bit of Archie and Edith Bunker in my mom and dad’s interactions. I laughed, thinking it was a good sign he still had a sense of humor.

I stared at the tv but I wasn’t really watching Sweden and the Czech Republic. Sweden was winning. Dad asked how the Girls were doing. I launched into a story about Macy.  She had been getting into our bedroom and wreaking havoc. For awhile, putting a laundry basket in front of the door worked. Then she started jumping over that and nosing the door open, which would then close behind her, leaving Alice alone in the hallway while Macy chewed through comforters or created other mischief. Our doors were old and had no locks on them so they were easy for Macy to nose open. Also, the old doorknobs didn’t work, and we only had one baby gate at the top of the steps to keep the dogs upstairs while we were gone. “We can’t gate every doorway,” I said.

Dad suggested an eyehook latch and I explained again that the doorknobs were super old and super not easy to replace, having no clue what an eyehook latch was. He told me he’d take a look at the doors when he felt better but until then I should get the eyehooks. He picked up the tv schedule next to his shake and asked me to get him a pen. Then he drew an eyehook, his hands shaking. “Get one of these,” he said, pointing to the drawing. “Put it on the outside of the door, up high enough so Crazy Eyes can’t paw at it.” That’s what he called Macy, for her one blue eye and one brown eye and her overabundance of energy. He took a sip of his drink and shut his eyes. I stood there for a bit longer, watching Sweden and the Czech Republic battle it out for the win. He fell asleep instantly; my lack of home improvement knowledge had exhausted him. I tip-toed out of the room, leaving the drawing behind. I remember standing at the door, thinking I should go back in and tell him I loved him, knowing that he wasn’t going to be over to look at the doors any time soon — or possibly ever. But I was sure I’d see him again and I didn’t want wake him. When mom came home, he was still sleeping and Sweden was winning. 

Dad died four days later. That night after being at the hospital, we returned to mom’s condo, puffy-eyed and at a loss for what to do next. All I could think about was that tv schedule. I needed the drawing that I had left behind. Mom had already pitched the schedule and the daily newspapers out. I rifled through the stack of papers in the garage and found it. It seems silly that I would want to have something so small and barely legible. But people do and say and need oddball sorts of things when they’re grieving — my odd thing was that simple drawing, dad’s last effort to help me fix something around our house. Because that’s what he did for all of us kids. Who needed the Handyman Connection when we had our own?

That’s not all he did for us. Below is the eulogy, written by me with the help of my sisters and brothers and mom. Four years later, here we are with another Winter Olympics and a great hockey match between the U.S. and Canada. And here we are honoring and celebrating the same things about dad that made him “our dad.” I’m sure dad was sitting at his workbench in heaven’s basement (he was a basement kind of guy) cheering for the U.S. and cursing Miller’s missed goal, but happy for the hero Sidney Crosby who shot the winning goal and made it one helluva good game.

(Dad and mom, their wedding)

We Remember Dad

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song…

Dad was all of those things to us and more. We always joked with him that he was the King of the House. But, like all good jokes, there was an element of truth in our nickname for him. Above all else, dad loved mom and the family they created. Whenever we were together – for holidays or dinners or birthdays – you could always find Dad, standing just outside our loud and boisterous clan, watching his kingdom with pride.

And in this small way, with his half grin and upturned eyebrow, we all knew how much he loved us. Dad was a quiet man, much quieter than the rest of us, but he taught us how small gestures and moments could be more far powerful and memorable than the grandest of scenes. Here then, are some of the small things we remember of Dad, the things that we will carry largely in our hearts and minds.

Our Dad could fix anything. He fixed our bikes, our skates, our cars, our houses. His workbench in the basement was his palace. It was so organized, we could never get away with stealing one of his tools. He’d ask who took his hammer and we’d have to confess, and, no sooner had we confessed, Dad would be on the job, fixing whatever it was we had tried to fix ourselves. The house on Applevalley showcased much of Dad’s handywork – the bookshelves in the family room, the desk in the bedroom, and, of course, the backyard deck that Kevin and dad built. Dad was a hard worker but he moved at a tortoise pace, something we teased him about. Dad taught us there was a method to his maddening pace. His Zen-like approach to a task – the way he studied every nook and cranny before he set out to work — guaranteed he’d get it done right the first time. He took to heart the motto “Always be prepared” and as much as we joked about his perfect workbench, his organized toolbox, and his preparatory rituals, we were all amazed at how naturally fixing things came to him. Continue reading →

Last week marked the fourth anniversary of my Grandma Cass Riedmiller’s passing. That’d be her on the left next to my mom with my Grandma Eleanor Creelman on my mom’s right. You can’t see all of Grandma’s legs but let’s just say she taught all of us how to stand properly for a picture, one foot in front of the other, toe slightly pointed, you know, to make your legs look good and slender. All of her grandchildren and even great and great-great grandchildren know this pose.

Grandma was 93  and had lived with Alzheimer’s for several years. My mom and her two brothers were her caretakers, taking shifts to visit her every day at the nursing home. As her granddaughter, it wasn’t easy watching my grandma lose her memory and her independence; I can only imagine how tough it was for my mom and uncles. It’s true — painfully so — that Alzheimer’s is often harder on the caretakers than it is on the person with the disease. My grandma didn’t know me the last few times I visited her. She thought I was my oldest sister Chris or that I was just someone to come for a visit. And given that my siblings call me “Little Cass” because I’ve adopted some of grandma’s habits, I always left feeling sad that we couldn’t joke around about the fact that I had gum and mints in my purse (like she always did) or that I was hoping to eat potato chips later (like she loved to do) or that I pulled my house keys out about five miles away from the house (like she always did) or that I went to the “libarry” (like she always did) or, most important, that I scored a bargain at Macys or Dillard’s (like she always did when they were known as Shillito’s and McAlpin’s).  Those things were no longer a part of grandma’s narrowed Alzheimer’s world but they are the memories of her that all of us still keep close to our hearts.

Despite the moments when Grandma turned disagreeable or got confused and sad, she kept her grace and style all the way through her final days. She was always ready with a “thank you” or “your hair is beautiful” compliment. And even though she stopped wearing her skirts and jewelry, she still dressed in a nice sweater or fleece jacket — courtesy of those taking care of her.  Her small room at the nursing home was filled with pieces of her past — pictures, trinkets, the things that made grandma our Grandma. Those who loved her did everything they could to bring my grandparents’ home on Kugler Mill into the nursing home.

We called those trinkets “Grandma’s Treasures.” Because here’s the thing: Grandma had this magical stash of treasures and you couldn’t leave her house empty handed. You were either given some candy or a piece of costume jewelry that she’d tired of, or maybe a little heart-shaped box to put your earrings in, or a scarf, or…well, the list is endless. My grandparents weren’t wealthy but my Grandma never stopped giving to others. As kids, we sometimes giggled at Grandma’s gifts of huge daisy earrings or pastel scarves that we weren’t sure we’d ever wear. But we always appreciated what she gave us and respected her generosity as much as we respected the fact that she always had a dish of hard candy in the “TV room” waiting for us.

Two years ago, I was at the Nervous Dog Coffee Bar with a couple of friends and we decided to pay a couple of dollars to have our palms read by a psychic/palm reader. My reader was a mix of good and bad news, some of which happened. I did injure my knee as she had indicated. And I was stuck on the novel as she predicted. Argh. Worse, my two friends had all sorts of spiritual guides and fairies and other-worldly entities looking after them, and they had past lives. Apparently this is my first time on the planet so I’m highly inexperienced in everything, including novel writing. But the palm reader did sense that there was a woman in my life, someone who had died recently, who was looking after me. I was supposed to call on her energy to help me sort out the problems with my manuscript. Funny enough, in the first draft of the novel, two of the characters are named after my Grandmas. It was my way of honoring them.

Hmmm….so I started dialing up a little Grandma whenever I worked on the novel. “Okay, grandma, you read a ton of books, help me out here. Where is this danged plot supposed to go?” I added a little angel to my desk to represent Grandma. Then my friend Erin came for a visit and she left a coin with a bird on it. And I already had my Winnie the Pooh statue that Dave had given me several years ago. I started my own writing alter and any time I’d write, I’d focus on those objects, quiet my mind (seriously not an easy task) and begin.

Then, at Christmas, my wickedly creative sister Mary gave all of us girls a gift. If you look at the photo above, you’ll see something that looks like a silver spoon. My mom and sister had been at a craft fair where an artist made ornaments out of spoons. Which got them to thinking of Grandma’s treausres. My treasure is one of grandma’s spoons along with two of  her old pins. It’s beautiful, and it was just the piece my writing alter needed. Sorry, this ornament will not be hanging on the Christmas tree. It’ll be sitting at my desk wondering where the potato chips are, asking whether we need to go to the “libarry,” and always, always keeping an eye out for good bargains.

I’m not sure they make women like my grandma anymore. She was classy and kind, and even though my grandpa weren’t rich by any stretch, they had the best wealth of all — good friends, good family, good times with each other, and good memories. And that’s the lesson all of us treasure the most.

I came across this in the daily Writer’s Almanac email I get. Good stuff.